


heart attack so now i'm on my

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [10]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anti-Angry Birds Content, Crying During Sex, Deaf Clint Barton, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, POV Clint Barton, POV Third Person, PWP, Poor Steve. Poor Poor Steve., Remote-Controlled Sex Toys, Sex Toys, Soft Love Turned Prawny, Unreasonable Sex Marathon, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 12:24:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20907626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Hell, Clint still gets excited by the clearance aisle at the supermarket. Two-dollar cheeses and pirated movies are his idea of a good time. And then there’s this. “What are you wanting me to do here, exactly?”“I want you to sit on it,” Bucky says, straight-up, without any fanfare. “And then stay there until I get back.”





	heart attack so now i'm on my

Clint wakes up to the sunlight spreading out warm on his skin and a metal arm slung low across his stomach. None of his limbs are snapped or broken or fractured, and the only marks he’s currently sporting are mostly the fault of the supersoldier currently pressing lazy kisses against his throat. There’s no emergency, he’s got the week off from SHIELD grunt work, and his boyfriend is here.

All in all, it’s a pretty fucking great start to the day.

“You were supposed to be home yesterday,” Clint says, and he’s _definitely_ not whining, not at all. It’s not like he’d stayed up most of the night waiting for his boyfriend like a sad puppy. (His _own_ sad puppy has been stolen by Kate. So he gets lonely, sue him.)

Cold fingers trail along his hip like they’re investigating the bare skin, like Bucky hasn’t done it a million times before and he needs to commit every inch to memory. Clint doesn’t know why he isn’t bored of it (of him) yet, but he blinks up at the cracked ceiling, enjoys the touching while it lasts. Bucky doesn’t move away from his skin, but there’s a distinct buzzing feeling against Clint’s neck.

“Can’t hear you, Buck,” Clint adds.

The mattress shifts underneath him and his breath catches in his lungs. It’s been doing that since the first time he saw Bucky Barnes smile and it doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. There’s so many things Clint could say he likes about Bucky but they all feel ridiculous and weak when the entire package is _so much._ He can’t quite help the sappy smile that grows on his face in return. Bucky’s messy-haired and shirtless, the sunlight catching the gold strands in his hair. Clint’s fairly sure he’s been seeing some silver in there too and he can’t begin with how much he likes it.

_Fuck,_ he’s gorgeous.

Bucky says something but Clint’s too distracted to comprehend it or attempt to read his lips. _Morning,_ he signs instead.

“Hi,” Clint says, hopes it doesn’t come out as soft and smitten as he thinks it does. “Missed you.”

Bucky’s face softens visibly and he drops his hands back down to the bed to lean in for a kiss. His mouth tastes like toothpaste, which makes Clint think that he’s only gotten home in the last few hours. He’s not jealous of Steve and Bucky’s relationship, doesn’t feel threatened by it in the slightest - if he did, he’d be a hypocrite, considering how he and Natasha are - but he doesn’t like Bucky being gone all the time.

Fingers drift across his stomach, slip down to squeeze gently at his dick through his boxers. Clint squirms against it, feels the lazy pulse of arousal. It takes some difficulty to arch away, grab for his hearing aids next to the copy of Vampire Academy that’s been left there. Bucky lets him fit them in and then kisses him again. It’s lazy and warm and it’s just _nice,_ having Bucky’s weight pressing down on top of him. He kind of wants to ask Bucky to hold him down, but then Bucky would have to move his hand and it's in a pretty great spot right now.

“Was thinkin’ about you the whole time I was in Russia,” Bucky says as he continues his lazy fondling. “You havin’ fun without me, sweetheart?”

“Nothing notable,” Clint answers, which is true. Jerking off in the shower doesn’t count as fun once you’ve had sex with Bucky Barnes.

Clint’s- he’s not sure what he expected when they started dating, really. More trauma, maybe. Natasha had taken years before she’d been comfortable enough to even sit next to him. It had been a bit of a shock when he’d realised Bucky had a very active sex drive and an even _more_ active desire to have sex with Clint in particular.

Bucky rolls them over so Clint’s on top, his knees on either side of Bucky’s hips. It’s a pretty good view, when he’s not trying to absorb Bucky’s soul through his mouth. He’s not entirely sure what Bucky’s plan is until he feels Bucky’s free hand slip under the back of his underwear, slick with lube. When had he done that? Hell, Clint's half-asleep, Bucky could've done it at any point and he wouldn't have cared. Clint shifts under his fingers, push back when he feels one slip over his hole. 

_“Yeah,”_ he breathes, right up against Bucky’s mouth, and it’s so enthusiastic-sounding that he gets a laugh in return.

“Eager?”

“You have no fucking idea,” Clint answers honestly, and Bucky pushes two fingers in, curls them without any fanfare. The low hum of arousal curls harder in his stomach and he kisses Bucky harder to stifle any moaning that might slip out. He’s kind of a sucker for this, the lazy unhurried fucking in the morning light. He rocks back against Bucky’s fingers, breath catching in a gasp as it hits him just right.

“You sure you missed me and not the sex?”

“Fuck off,” Clint retorts, but it comes out as more of a groan. Bucky smirks at him, utterly unapologetic, and Clint has to kiss the expression off of his face.

Bucky’s phone starts ringing. It’s Britney Spears and Clint hates it right now, ignores it as obviously as he can as Bucky’s hand slows down. Bucky’s smirk gets even wider as Clint determinedly does _not_ look in the direction of the phone. Fuck it. Fuck everything that isn’t Bucky fucking _him_. The ringing stops after a minute and Clint gets back into it, bites his lip and gets his own hand on the bulge in Bucky’s work pants. Why is he wearing _those_ in bed?

The phone starts ringing again. Clint cracks, has to turn and channels his best Winter Soldier-level glare at it. Bucky’s laughing at him, runs his non-lubed hand up Clint’s side in a move that’s probably meant to be comforting. It isn’t. The screen has ‘STEVE’ on it in giant block letters and in this moment, Clint would absolutely fight Captain America. Villainy is looking more and more attractive the longer the phone rings.

“Clint.” Clint gets the distinct impression he’s pouting when he looks at Bucky. Bucky is even looking apologetic. “We’ve got some things to finish at SHIELD today after the mission. I shouldn’t even be here at all.”

“But-”

“I know, sweetheart,” Bucky says. Clint makes a frustrated noise instead of words and Bucky curls the fingers still inside of him. The phone goes off again. “I’m probably gonna be gone for most of the day, too, I’m sorry.”

“I haven’t gotten off properly in weeks,” Clint grumbles. He hadn’t _meant_ to say that out loud, but it’s true. Bucky’s fingers withdraw and his breath hitches even as he realizes Bucky’s sitting up, reaching for the shirt he’d left on the pillow and pulling it on one-handed. His _work_ shirt. Clint despises it. Then Bucky’s getting a tissue and wiping off his other hand, and Clint’s half-tempted to just handcuff him to the bed and beat away any distractions with the katana in his closet.

“I know,” Bucky says again, leans in to kiss him. Clint lets him. “I felt bad, so I got you a little something to keep you occupied while I’m not here.”

“Is it Fury’s head in a basket?”

“No,” Bucky answers. “You like Fury.”

“When he’s not cockblocking me, maybe,” Clint mutters. “You’re sure you can’t just blow them off?” _And blow me,_ he adds silently. It’s a little too desperate to say out loud.

Bucky’s amused expression says he probably gets the idea anyway. “C’mon,” he says, shifts Clint off of him and gets up. It takes Clint a few minutes to actually move, and by then he’s more curious than aroused. Bucky’s not exactly a present-giving sort of guy, usually - he likes showing his affection with actions, or just by saying it verbally. It could be anything. Maybe he’s stolen Lucky back from Kate, although the dog isn’t really a _gift_.

Intrigued, Clint gets his boxers back up properly and adjusts his hard-on, wanders down the stairs after Bucky.

What he’s presented with is a dildo. It’s suction-cupped to a chair, purple and curved.

Clint snorts at it when he sees the colour, glances at Bucky to see if this is some kind of joke. He’s a little flushed in the face, half-hard in his work pants and standing with his hand behind his back. The smile is still there, but it’s hiding a slight hint of anxiety. Not a joke, then. Interesting. That makes it even _more_ curious.

“When did you buy this?”

“Couple of weeks ago,” Bucky answers casually, leans up against the kitchen counter. “There was a sale.”

“Of course there was.” Give the guy who grew up in the Depression money, he's going to hoard it like a metal-armed dragon. Technically, they're _all_ supposed to be rich, but no one had quite come around to Tony's level of extravagance. Hell, Clint still gets excited by the clearance aisle at the supermarket. Two-dollar cheeses and pirated movies are his idea of a good time. 

And then there’s this. “What are you wanting me to do here, exactly?”

“I want you to sit on it,” Bucky says, straight-up, without any fanfare. “And then stay there until I get back.”

Clint gets the feeling he’s staring. He looks at the dildo again. Then back at Bucky. Then back to the dildo. Back to Bucky, who’s got an eyebrow raised questioningly. He’s already put his boots on to leave. Really, they’ve done things a lot kinkier than this, and if all Bucky’s asking is for him to sit on his ass for the rest of the day, it’s not a lot to ask. He’s still worked up from having Bucky finger him - and that had probably been prepping him for _this,_ rather than just teasing.

Okay, he’s interested. Clint takes a few steps closer, glances back at Bucky. "What, no restraints?”

“No,” Bucky answers, lips quirking up into a smirk. “No restraints.”

That’s interesting. It’s not like they’re lacking in equipment. Clint tips his head to the side. “So if I’m getting this right, I can just get up when you leave. Go take a nap. See a movie. What’s supposed to _keep _me here exactly, Bucko?”

“Easy,” Bucky says. “I’m asking you to.”

Aw, Bucky. “You’re lucky I like you so much,” Clint mutters, kicks his boxers off completely. He leaves the shirt on as a mild form of protest, prods at the dildo with a finger. It’s _very _purple. Clint kind of hates how much he likes it. It’s disgraceful, for Bucky to be taking advantage of him like this. Clint thinks he might be in love, just a little bit. (A lot.) Not that he’s going to admit that out loud.

He looks back and Bucky’s just watching him, a little bit of dark amusement and heat in his eyes, and yeah, he can humour the guy just this once.

Clint makes a little show of it, arches his back as he positions it with one hand and sinks down. He’s a little too fast, too eager for something inside him at _last_ and the stretch burns. He has to suck in a quick, shaky breath through his nose but he still takes the whole thing, gives Bucky a sideways smirk as he does. It’s thick but not overwhelming, just long enough that Clint feels every inch. Pretty good shopping on Bucky’s behalf. Clint’s gotta hand it to him, he knows what Clint’s into.

What he’s mostly into is _Bucky,_ though, and he positions himself a little more comfortably with one foot braced on the chair. If this makes Bucky happy while he’s away, well, at least Clint can give him that. And it _is _a very nice dick. Bucky’s stare is the icing on the cake. He’d clearly thought he was taking control here.

“Do I get water? Bathroom breaks? What’re the rules here?”

“Bathroom breaks are fine. I got the purple Gatorade so you stay hydrated. If I’m not back in three hours you can make food, but you have to eat it there,” Bucky recites. He’s been thinking about this, then. Planning. Clint shifts and bites down on a noise. It’s a _really _nice dick.

“Can I get off?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, and there’s something in his smirk that is extremely suspicious. “If you want to.”

“Alright,” Clint says. Grabs for the Gatorade. “So I’m just sitting here. Do I have to do anything else?”

Bucky slides Clint’s phone across the table. There’s a big crack along the side from God-knows-what, but it still works well enough. He’s pretty sure he’s still got games on it from years ago. Clint takes a swig of the Gatorade, puts the bottle down on the table again. There’s lube as well. He’s still not _entirely _sure where Bucky is going with this.

“You don’t have to do anything except answer the phone,” Bucky answers. “And you can safeword out whenever you want. Just text it or call.”

Why would he need to safeword out of _this?_ It’s not like the dildo has spikes on it or anything. Spikes are… a bit much. (He'd agree to it if Bucky asked him, though.) Clint nods his acknowledgement anyway. Bucky looks appropriately satisfied, steps into the space between his legs and leans down for a kiss. His fingers brush up the inside of Clint’s thigh teasingly, drag back down to his knee.

“_Fuck _SHIELD,” Clint says the second he moves away. “Get out of here, Barnes.”

Bucky smiles. Shit, Clint misses him already. “I’ll be back.”

“You better,” Clint grouses.

“This is all the same fucking thing,” he says to himself.

Angry Birds 2 _sucks_. Clint hates these goddamn repetitive games. It’s not like there’s any satisfaction in it, either - he’s fairly sure that there’s at least five hundred levels. He switches over to the games store, starts browsing through the options. There’s a cute little home design thing which looks interesting, so he taps on that instead, taps his fingers against the chair as he waits for it to download.

**Internet connection unstable. Please try again**, his phone announces, and Clint sighs. Is this Bucky’s plan? Killing him with boredom seems a little too sadistic for Bucky’s taste, although it’d explain why he didn’t elaborate on his plans for the day. He tosses his phone back on the table, tips his head back to stare up at the ceiling. Maybe he should just jerk off and be done with it.

The dildo is still pressing into him insistently, and it’s nice enough that he _could _get off on it, if he tried. Bucky should’ve gotten a metal one so Clint could pretend it was his hand, but this works too.

That’s when it starts vibrating.

“Oh, you bastard,” Clint tells the ceiling. It’s small at first, a quiet buzz that he’d never have noticed if it wasn’t inside of him.

He’s starting to get it. Work gets in the way of them _actually _fucking, but Bucky still wants to get him off. It’s touching, in a hot sort of way.

The vibrating cranks up a little higher and Clint swears, gets a hand around his dick. He can’t stop himself. It’s entirely possible this dildo is either magical or custom-made, because the only thing that stops it from being perfect is that it’s not Bucky’s. Except it _is_, kind of, and that’s what Clint has to settle for, for now.

He draws it out a little, licks the palm of his hand and twists slow over the head. The arousal from earlier is still there, simmering hot under the surface of his skin, and Clint figures he may as well have fun with this. Assuming Bucky had _wanted _him to have fun with this. He’s imagining Bucky sitting in a meeting, remote in his hand while he pretends to pay attention to what Fury and Steve are saying.

Thinking about Clint sitting at home with a dick vibrating in his ass, getting off on it even though he’s not there. Getting off because of _him_.

The vibrating stops as suddenly as it had started.

Clint sighs.

Fucking tease.

It starts up again half an hour later, when Clint’s just shifting into the right position after a bathroom break. The buzzing starts up against his rim and Clint’s breath catches in surprise. _Logically _he knows there’s probably no way Bucky can tell he’s not there, but he still feels stupidly guilty about it. He smears lube-slick fingers down it and gets on it as fast as he can without hurting himself in the process.

It’s not painful, not really, but it’s a _lot _all at once. At least there’s no one around to hear him moaning. It builds up slow, the same as last time. Even if it’s another tease, Clint’s still going to enjoy it.

It doesn’t go away after the first ten minutes. _Good,_ Clint thinks, wraps his fingers around his half-hard cock again. It builds faster this time, curling hot up his spine and wet on his hand. The vibrator kicks up a notch like Bucky knows what he’s doing and wants to participate instead of tease. His breath’s coming faster now, a little desperate and half-scared that Bucky’s going to turn it off again on him.

It doesn’t stop, though, and Clint comes on an exhale. It’s more of a relief than a mind-blowing orgasm, but it’s good and he gets to think about Bucky sitting in a meeting with the remote clenched in his hand. He rides out the aftershocks and then the vibrating slows down, shuts off. Clint sags back into the chair bonelessly, catches his breath.

Fuck. He doesn’t have anything to wipe the mess off with. Had _that _been part of Bucky’s plan or just an oversight on his part? Now he’s got to sit here and stew for a few hours.

**Clint**: ok that was fun

**Clint**: thx

**Bucky**: You’re welcome.

**Bucky**: Might be here for a while longer. You good?

**Clint**: fine

**Clint**: y wouldn’t i b?

**Bucky**: No reason.

**Bucky**: Talk to you later.

**Clint**: ok

The vibrating starts up again after that.

Clint realises, faintly, that he’d made the disastrous oversight of thinking Bucky would be done with him after one orgasm. It’s sending little oversensitive pings up his body and in his dick and _fuck_, he really shouldn’t have been so eager to get off the first time. Especially if _this_ is his plan, to just keep playing with Clint for the rest of the day. The Gatorade makes sense now.

Bucky must’ve _known_ Clint would be overeager. He’s - his words, not Bucky's - amusingly easy at the best of times and especially when they haven’t seen each other in a while, which means Bucky had probably guessed that he’d get off fairly quickly.

Huh. This is looking more and more like Bucky’s being a _sadist_ rather than a nice, loving boyfriend lending a hand. The vibrations get stronger and Clint squirms on the chair, sucks in a few fast breaths through his nose and tries to stay calm. He’s tempted to call Bucky and yell at him, but he already knows it’d turn into the kind of breathless begging that embarrasses the hell out of Clint once he’s come back to himself.

Nope, he’s just going to have to survive this.

Clint grits his teeth and holds on.

His phone rings.

Oh, fucking hell. Bucky had said, he’d warned Clint that he’d have to answer the phone like this, and Clint hadn’t even thought about it. He _should_ have. Now he’s got to talk to whoever’s on the other end without making what he’s doing _extremely_ obvious. He scrambles for the phone, catches it with his fingertips and drags it closer. He’s hoping it’s Bucky, but apparently there’s a bigger sadistic streak on his boyfriend than he’d guessed and-

“No,” Clint breathes. Thinks about old people, garbage, Natasha with a knife. No, that last one doesn’t work - Natasha _herself_ is a boner-killer, but now Clint’s thinking about Bucky with a knife, maybe using it to slice the shirt off of Clint’s chest.

Fuck, he’s got to answer the phone. Maybe Bucky’s just borrowing it. He smacks the ‘Answer’ button. “’llo?”

“Morning, Clint,” Steve greets, and Clint starts inwardly plotting Bucky’s murder. Many have failed to kill the Winter Soldier, but none of those people were forced to hold a conversation with Captain America with a vibrating dildo up their ass. Clint’s liking his chances. “Bucky said you weren’t feeling so good, so I thought I’d check on you.”

“Did he?” The vibrations kick up and he squirms, bites his lip. Fucking Bucky. __Not __fucking Bucky. He’s going to fuck Bucky. __Steve __fucking Bucky had plagued Clint’s mind (and his teen dick) in high school. What about Steve fucking- _no._

“-once we’re done here,” Steve is saying when Clint forcibly shuts off that avenue of thinking.

“Oh,” Clint says weakly. “Okay.” He’s got no idea what Steve’s said. He’s also hard again, which is both inconvenient and a little messy. Clint’s going to need about four thousand showers after this to wash the lube and come off. He’s going to make Bucky wash his hair.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Steve continues. “I know it’s been hard on you two. It’s easier with Sam, because he comes with me. I can’t imagine leaving him behind.”

“Yeah, well,” Clint answers, shifts and hisses when the dildo shifts inside him. “He finds ways to keep me thinking about him.”

“You’re good for one another,” Steve says. He sounds so _happy _and in any other situation, Clint would happily agree with him. As it is, he thinks Bucky might be trying to kill him, either of humiliation or overstimulation. It’s taking every muscle he’s got not to react to the increasingly insistent vibrations. He’s twitching, heat burning in every muscle he owns.

His next inhale is noisy, too noisy and obvious over the speaker. It's all Bucky's goddamn fault.

“Do you hear that noise?” Steve sounds puzzled. “It sounds like… buzzing?”

Goddamnit. Shit. Fuck. Fuckfuck_fuck_. Why does the supersoldier serum have to include super hearing on top of everything else? The vibrations kick up a notch and Clint bites into his lip so hard that he tastes blood on his tongue. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t moan into the speaker. As it is, he ends up with his forehead pressed against the table, hands clenching on the armrests sporadically.

“I think it might be on your end, Clint,” Steve says. “Is everything okay?”

He needs to say something. Fuck, he needs to answer or he’s going to- “It- it’s my phone! I’d better - _fuck _\- answer it, gotta go, Steve!”

His voice cracks about three different times getting the words out and as he hangs up, the vibrations increasing enough that he’s twitching on the chair. His skull feels like it’s being microwaved. There’s about five seconds of coherent thought in which he manages _did I just tell Steve, on the **phone**, that my phone was ringing? Fuck_-__ and then he’s coming again without even putting a hand close to his dick, muscles clenching up so hard that he slams his forehead on the table.

The pain doesn’t make him feel any less overwhelmed.

Eventually, the vibrations slow down and then stop.

Clint can’t breathe.

He should probably move far away after this. Maybe Transylvania. Surely the vampires won’t care about his embarrassing life decisions. He can wear a black hooded cloak and strike fear into the hearts of the local townspeople. Natasha would come with him, she likes that kind of stuff. Except then Natasha would know what he was hiding from and then she’d just drag him back.

Clint’s got to get up. He should rehydrate, he should call it quits, he should call Bucky and just _scream _into the phone for a few hours. He doesn’t move an inch. The dildo feels huge all of a sudden, and the reflexive clench around it hurts. Fuck. He can’t even lift his head from the table. The way he’s sitting is uncomfortable and he can’t even find the effort to move into a position that will be kinder on his aching muscles.

He’s starting to get it now.

Bucky didn’t want him to just sit here. Bucky wanted to ruin him entirely, and he’s _succeeding_. God, Clint's too old for these shenanigans. Retiring is starting to sound more and more appealing with every day that passes.

Then again, if he retired then he’d be at Bucky’s mercy twenty-four seven, and that’s an absolutely terrifying concept. He’s definitely getting too old for this.

Clint can still taste the blood from where he bit his lip too hard. What’s the mortician going to think about this? Does it still count as murder if it’s murder from sexual overstimulation?

He doesn’t get a break for long.

_“Fuck,”_ he grits out.

God, why hadn’t Bucky given him handcuffs? Even tying him to the chair with _ropes _would be kinder than just expecting him to use sheer force of will, and he’s had ropeburn enough to know that’s a bad idea. Clint’s nearly shivering out of the chair. If he wasn’t so boneless he might’ve considered attempting to slide down to the floor, take the chair with him. Would it be too much to request some fucking _mercy?_

He wonders where those pained, animal-sounding noises are coming from, realizes it’s him making them.

Clint’s gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw hurts. His thighs hurt from being tensed up for so long. He’s a fucking superhero and an Avenger, it shouldn’t be this difficult. He’s spent weeks in the middle of a snowstorm just sitting and waiting for a single elusive target to come along. _This _is worse. The buzzing won’t stop- it’s not just the buzzing in his ass but in his skull as well, persistent and mindless.

He breathes and tries to ignore his dick's half-hearted twitch.

He’s a fucking mess.

Coming dry had seemed like an achievement before now, and it still _is _an achievement, to some degree, but Clint’s fairly sure he passes out for a while.

When he manages to open his eyes again the lighting is completely different. Then again, that could just be his eyesight going to hell as well. There’s a saying somewhere about fucking someone blind.

The vibrating starts up again.

Clint whimpers.

Clint doesn’t hear the door open and he barely registers the sound of the keys hitting the bowl. He’s fairly sure he’s died and this is the afterlife. Why would Satan need keys? That doesn’t seem right. Satan should be able to go wherever he wants to go, it’s his realm.

Clint’s realistic enough to know that if there is an afterlife, he isn’t going upstairs.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky says, warm against his ear. _Oh_. Lips press against his forehead and Clint’s still shaking because it’s too much, it’s too much and he _can’t_.

Bucky draws back and Clint can’t help the whine that escapes his throat. He’s not touching him, _why _isn’t he touching him? Clint doesn’t even feel like a real person anymore. He’s just a raw bundle of nerve ends and the shivering won’t stop no matter how many times he tries to steady his breathing. There’s not enough oxygen in the air.

“Please,” he croaks, has no idea what he’s asking for but asks anyway. His voice is beyond understanding, cracked and desperate, but Bucky’s hand lands on his head, cards through his hair gently. The vibrating is only a low buzz and it’s still tearing him apart from the inside. Clint doesn’t think his legs even work anymore.

“You did so _good, _Clint,” Bucky says, and he’s crouching between Clint’s knees. The tears make his figure more of a blurry mess of shapes and colours than a physical person. He's dimly aware that in any other situation he’d be sneering at praise but it slams through him like a brick wall and he’s whining harder, louder, more insistent. He doesn’t have the brain capacity to do anything else. “So good. Wasn’t sure you’d make it. I didn’t mean to be away so long, I’m sorry.”

“Please,” he repeats, voice coming in hitching sobs now as he shakes. He's not sure he remembers a time when he _wasn't _shaking. His face feels wet. “Please, Bucky, I'm-”

“Hey, hey, you're okay,” Bucky answers in a soothing voice. It's one he usually uses for small animals, soft and fond, and it's not usually directed at Clint but it’s filled with comfort. 

He smooths a hand down Clint's bare thigh and it's the metal one, sharp cold on his overheated skin and he can't stifle a gasp. Every inch of his skin is on fire and he's bursting into flames under Bucky's fingers. The pleasure is well and truly crossing into pain now and Clint thinks maybe, _maybe _he's been good enough that Bucky will take some kind of mercy on him. 

“You're doing great, sweetheart,” Bucky says and Clint barely hears it over the sobbing breaths he's taking. Some distant part of him is indignant at the tone Bucky uses, but it's overshadowed by the desperate need to _please _Bucky, to stay still and take it because Bucky _wants _it. 

Then there's a tongue dragging up the underside of his cock and if he wasn't crying before, he definitely is now. The stimulation is pinging around in his skull like a bullet and he's _fucked_. Bucky's not blowing him properly, just exploring with his tongue. It's wet and hot and he'd usually love it but as it is, his muscles seize up at the sparks of sensation and he must nearly kick Bucky because his twitching legs are quickly held down by firm hands. 

The restraining don't make him feel any better. It's too late for that. 

“I _can’t,_” he manages, over the lump in his throat. There's no way he can come again. His heart's going to stop before he does.

“You’ve got a safeword,” Bucky says, completely unaffected. Clint tips his head back, tries to focus on breathing enough that he stops seeing spots in his visions. It doesn’t help him even _slightly _and now there’s black edging on the sides as well. Bucky’s mouth is back on him and he’s going to die, this is it, just another one of the Winter Soldier’s victims in an entirely different method.

He’s never even considered safewording out. Hell, maybe he _does _want this, he can’t even tell anymore.

“I can’t,” he repeats. “I can’t, I _can’t,_ ‘s too much, I c-” He has to break off to pant at the ceiling and even that doesn’t help the shaking, the conviction that this is how he’s going to die. Bucky’s mouth is wet and Clint’s wet and covered in sweat and lube and come, the fucking _definition _of messy, and Bucky’s licking at him anyway like he can’t get enough.

Clint doesn’t know when he got hard again- he doesn’t know _how _he got hard again, but he’s sobbing and clenching his fists on the chair so hard the wood creaks. He doesn’t know which way is up or what’s going on and then the orgasm hits him like a punch to the face and he’s _gone_.

He wakes up to being set down on his bed, vaguely registers that he isn’t sticky anymore before he passes out again.

The next time he wakes up, it’s dark and he’s curled half on-top of warm muscles and cool metal. Bucky’s brushing fingers up and down his spine rhythmically and Clint’s too exhausted and strung out to react beyond making a vague grunting noise. Bucky pulls him a little closer, pushes what feels like his nose into Clint’s hair. He doesn’t seem interested in doing anything beyond cuddling and Clint lets himself drift.

It’s nice. Peaceful.

“You want some water?”

Clint shakes his head. “I hope you made funeral arrangements,” he croaks. 

“Nah,” Bucky replies, which is easy for _him _to say. “You ain't dyin' on me yet, Barton.”

Clint makes a noise that could be the start of an argument, but it’s weak and half-hearted. He exhales, rubs his face against the cotton of Bucky’s shirt. It’s so _soft _in comparison to the chair he’s been sitting on all day, the table he’d had his forehead pressed against. Bucky’s arm is gloriously cold, too, and he grabs for it with weak fingers, wraps it a little more tightly around himself.

“How many?”

“Dunno,” Clint answers, the word coming out all lazy and slurred. He wasn’t asked to count the amount of orgasms, and he’s not sure he could’ve managed it even if Bucky _had _asked him to do it. He’s only mortal. _Bucky _could probably do it without even breaking a sweat. Fucking supersoldiers. The hand stroking down his back stays steady.

“Steve was worried after your phone call,” Bucky says and Clint groans. “Then he sent me home. I ain’t allowed to go back ‘til you’re feeling better.”

“Oh,” Clint answers. Then, more understanding, “_oh._”

“Keep actin’ weird and we can stretch this out for the whole week,” Bucky tells him. Huh. Apparently Steve hadn’t caught on to what he was up to after all. A week of waking up with Bucky next to him is sounding pretty fucking excellent right now. Clint’s not letting him leave at all, even for groceries. They can splurge and get them delivered.

“I always act weird,” Clint replies. “Pancakes?”

“Waffles,” Bucky counters. “I’ll bring them up to you. You were real good for me, sweetheart, you deserve a reward.”

The praise makes Clint want to hide and he does, sort of, presses his face into Bucky’s chest and inhales. “Next time I have to go to Siberia, I’m getting payback.”

“Sure,” Bucky says easily. “I’ll film it, too, so you can watch while you’re out there.”

“Love you,” Clint mumbles, and Bucky’s fingers on his back pause. Faintly, he realises he’s never actually said it out loud before. Sure, they’ve implied it, but they’ve never- _he’s _never- it just fucking slipped out and he should apologize, he’s still dopey and he’s not thinking straight, it’s-

“Love you too,” Bucky answers, like it’s easy.

Clint deflates, mostly out of relief.

Fuck, maybe it _is _that easy.

**Author's Note:**

> winterhawk bingo square: remote-controlled sex toys
> 
> it's my birthday! so you guys get two presents/fics today- hang on, this seems backwards


End file.
